Instead of What I Said.

{Photo Credit: The Ballerina Project}

12.31.13

There's something sacred about going to war,
                                                      the way it somehow makes you appreciate things
                                                                                                          like butter more.
The chaos, you crave it- that's the thing...
first times lead to "just one more time"
and the hands on the clock of your heart develop arthritis
                                       -from all the holding on-
grantee, they'll stop ticking long before you realize.
They say as people we become like those we surround ourselves with;
         I never used to believe them...
but for the first time in four hundred and fifty eight days,
today
I asked someone other than me, "how are you doing?" 

You don't have to surround yourself with people to become like them;
O' no.
You can distance your self, on the most remote island
                                                                             in the middle of the Ocean,
but- as long as you surround your thoughts with someone
                                                                      and hang your soul up on their fears
their polluted waves of influence can still reach your shores.
For years I thought they were in pursuit of happiness,
but they're not.
They're searching for assurance-
                                                looking for a place where they will feel adequate.
Woman! you can't keep attempting to be that place:
    *letting them inhabit your being and pierce your soul with their self loathing
    *throwing off your self so that they can have a place of refuge...
No-
the only solution to their emptiness:
for them to seek out adequacy within the place where they are at.
within their minds,

                           their bodies,

the vessels that transport their souls through life-

if they feel inadequate there

 they won't feel adequate anywhere.

Slow Dancing

 

we were a fire hazard

somewhere between here and there

our wires got crossed

and we became an

 elegantly twisted pending disaster-

we could only slow dance in a burning room so long

before our lungs were filled with smoke,

the roof caved in,

and we collapsed.

 

when I wake up everything has changed,

I can breath again-

 

 you are the only one who will ever truly understand- value

what I lost in the fire,

for you too rock-stepped

 to the beautifully tragic chaos-

 

 

slowly I begin to accept talking to anyone else about it

doesn't really help.

I won't see the same relief,

or mirrored pain,

in anyone's eyes but yours.